


(Made It Back To) A Place We Call Home

by Fake_Brit



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, POV Multiple, Season/Series 07, Sequel, Wish Fulfillment, traces of smut (if you look hard enough)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 10:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15313584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fake_Brit/pseuds/Fake_Brit
Summary: "When she had first told him—finally told him, actually; thank you, Mellie—that she loves him, she had done so completely aware that it would have led her on a rocky path, but she had no idea how nerve-wrecking it would’ve turned out to be.Wherein Olake go public, try their hand at godparenting and even sneak in some Cupid work along the way.





	(Made It Back To) A Place We Call Home

**Author's Note:**

> when I realised I wanted to write a sequel to Love Will Not Betray You, I certainly had not envisioned months of dreaming up scenes and writing at the most absurd times, only to rewrite scenes 3 times and end up staring at 51 and a half word pages in the end. Nonetheless, I hope you guys enjoy this.  
> Title is from All That You Are by The Goo Goo Dolls.  
> To be clear, this takes place before the time jump in LWNBY.

The questions are something they have always had to deal with, one way or another—it’s something that comes with the job; it’s always come with the job.Some of those questions are difficult, because even though they are a question in shape, all that rings out, loud and clear, is this: they assume, forming and cementing an opinion word after word.

Case in point: the way the journalist’s face twists—that wrinkle of disagreement etched in the skin of his nose before the words are even out of his mouth.

It’s not like they had no idea questions like this would come. They knew they were going to have to face something like this among the usual, “how did you two meet,” and the persistent, bitter judgement that dripped from two little words. _Why now?_

The first one had been easy. “We met in a café,” she had said, her smile (genuine, despite what she couldn’t add; you know, TV interviews really aren’t the place for that kind of gore) immediate. “He bumped into me in the register line, and,” her voice had risen; her face had opened, eyes alight with teasing. “He started flirting the minute he realised he had bumped into, well, me.”

“I may have started it, but you,” he’d poked her in the side, voice gentle and low, “you are the one who stared at me as I left, Ms Pope.”

_ Touché _ , she had silently added. 

“In all seriousness,” Jake had added a second later. “I saw her and she looked—sad. Say, My-Life-Has-Just-Gone-To-Hell kind of sad. As a Navy officer I’ve experienced plenty of that, and...” the rest of his answer had faded out, because, unlike other people, she knows what he’d swept under the Navy rug. Hell, she herself has several Navy rugs, so, instinctually, she had reached out, found his hand and squeezed.

The why now question had been an entirely different can of worms. When she had first told him—finally told him, actually; _thank you, Mellie_ —that she loves him, she had done so completely aware that it would have led her on a rocky path, but she had no idea how nerve-wrecking it would’ve turned out to be.

The answer to that question—the one she had given Jake in private, the one Quinn had heard years ago in the single thread her voice had been reduced to, fear echoing in the space between words—was simple in its complexity. So she boils it down to what she has always tried to deny. She says, “I was afraid before.”

When she doesn’t elaborate, the person she is facing prompts relentlessly, like a shark out for blood. “Afraid how, Olivia?”

She takes a deep breath, images of those days lurking behind her eyes; she can feel them wanting to surface, pressing hard as though they meant to kick the door wide open and come back to haunt her even though there has been more than enough water flowing beneath the bridge since then.

“I didn’t have the most conventional upbringing,” she explains—which is definitely not a lie. 

Back when they decided they were going to actually do this—back when the news of divorce had still been fresh, whatever it is that there was between them still unsteady, still new; or as new as it could claim to be with them, anyway—Quinn had made her advice crystal clear. “If you want to convince people, you’ll have to be real. Or at least, as real as you can get without spilling government-sized dirty laundry like it was warm milk. Are you sure you wanna do this?” a beat had gone by—crawled at the same irritating pace of melting ice cream pooling down a cone—and she’d added, “You tried to do this once, and it looked like hell, Liv. Watching you go through that kind of made into my worst nightmare top ten—do you really want to try and sell a love story again?”

Her voice hadn’t risen or boomed of the walls; windows hadn’t shaken. No dust had raced down the ceiling, but she _had_ heard the snap settle into her own tone as the words came out. “I won’t be selling anything,” soft as they had been, the words had rung out just like an axe tearing into wood would have. “Because I’m tired of lying about this—I am tired of denying it to anyone but myself, at all times, except those few hours of time in the dead of night where all I can do is catch a break, breathe and lie awake thinking, _one more day down._ ” Her voice had caught; Jake’s eyes had stayed fixed on her—warm and open and full; completely focused, committing every twitch of hers to memory, in that way of his; that way that makes her feel like no matter what, she will be on solid ground—the word around her may scratch and bleed and bruise, but its axis won’t spin an inch off its curse.“So, I’m not selling anything, Quinn. This is the truth,” she had stopped, cutting herself off at the sight of Quinn’s bewildered, wide eyes squinting at her. 

“Well,” she’d amended. “A tweaked, public-appropriate version of the truth, and I don’t wanna deny it anymore.”

Her words are echoing around in her head right now. _The truth—no more running from this._ “My mom died when I was twelve, and since then everything kind of just...”there’s this thing in her chest, beating and beating and beating on and on; it’s deafening. Her words come out muffled to her own ears and every one of them burns in her throat. “Took a downturn. My dad shipped me off to boarding school, and I had to adapt and deal, so I did. And then life went on, years passed by; I worked my way up the ladder, step by step, inch by inch—despite the words I heard time and time again, all I knew was that that’s all they were; words thrown together to make whoever had gotten up and said them look good and supportive.”

She stops. The words weren’t easy to say; albeit true, they are something she’s always tried to shove away and focus on proving them wrong by being on top, no matter what. _No more._ “Truthfully,” she goes on, the words running out of her, sharp and cutting even though this interview is supposed to lean into every tone of soft existing on this Earth (FYI, she doesn’t care—so, there’s that). “I had grown convinced that I had to tear people down and live among hushed whispers, but pretend they were nothing but misguided indications of appreciation; I had become convinced that my drive and my ambition were only good if applied to some circumstances—I had lived thinking that only half of me deserved to be loved, which is why I put everything in that half—and discovered that my everything was too much for some people. So,” her voice lowers; she has never explicitly said a word of this to anyone, and finally doing so leaves her incredibly open—which feels like walking through quicksand. 

If they were alone, she wouldn’t be sitting on the other side of the couch; they would be interloped, their breaths and words echoing across their skin, delicate, quick touches drawing patterns on shoulders, caresses stemming out of them like a flood. But they aren’t alone—even now, even like this, though, she can feel his hand curling around hers, warm and soft despite the calluses here and there; she feels the light squeeze, the solid grip— _I’m here; I will always be here_ —and the tightness in her stomach dissipates, her resolve solidifying. She is done with running away—for good.

“When this guy showed up,” she pokes at him again, voice lighter. “It took me a long time to believe he meant what he said and that what he said was about the entirety of me, but that’s not the only reason I had for running from him as though he were a tsunami,” she’s snarking it off as though it were not a big deal, but it is; and she’s sure he’s caught every small break in her voice.

Maybe he’ll tell her later, maybe he’ll kiss her a little harder, hold her a little tighter; maybe he’ll say nothing as he watches her dance, smiling as though he thought he were impossible to see, bright and warm and so familiar and intimate to her that her knees will almost give out—she doesn’t know. All she knows is that he notices. Every single, tiny thing; he notices and remembers, without fail or error—he remembers and cherishes every damn second worthy of being cherished. As for the unworthy ones, he spends just as much time on proving every instant of them—even the ones he isn’t tied to in any relevant way—fundamentally wrong.

“What scared me was me,” is what the mess of her thoughts settles on. She could try and explain, but it wouldn’t mean much to those who haven’t lived it. “Or to put it into more accurate terms, what scared me was my reaction to him. Jake has always been handy with words and feelings, has always had his heart on his sleeve when he wanted to; he’s quick to understand that he wants something and act accordingly. While me?” she’s lightening it up again, but her voice shakes visibly this time. “I’m a tougher nut to crack with this kind of thing, which is why when I realised it was real with a capital R for me I clammed up—and he let me, in a way. Because I had made it clear that was what I wanted, he let me; he never really left, though.”

Jake finally takes the proverbial mic out of her hands. He’s bought his time, the clever fox that he is; and now, he’s gonna swoop in and soak up the thunder. _Ass_ , she fondly grumbles to herself. “I had promised you,” he simply says, low and hoarse. “Not to go anywhere and I didn’t. I won’t.”

It’s easy to him—to just look at her and say these things, cameras or no cameras staring at them. There have been moments—one, actually; defined and stark and sturdy against the pile of memories she wishes she could change—where she would have done anything to just get up, look at him and finally, finally pour her heart out. There have been nights, as well; she would wake up, her breath ragged and burning in her chest and throat and her limbs would echo with the same kind of sting; her head swarming with _what if, what if, what if_ —what if I had told him, then and there; what if I had fought harder earlier _—dirtier, even_. Would he have believed me; would he have understood— _would I have made this far, had I stuck to the plan?_

There have been nights—long and sleepless and hazy and glassy nights—and she remembers how she’s puked her guts out after each of them, chills racing along her clammy skin as she stumbled to her feet. She will never forget them, long gone as they may be, and a tiny nook of her still misses her breathing cue, when he says things like this; she is probably grimacing just now thinking about the whole thing, but she can’t explain or stop, so she just turns her head and stares at the curve of his neck broadening into his shoulder. _Real, real, real; it’s all here, you’re not hallucinating or having a nightmare where when you least expect it he’ll crumble and all you will have left will probably amount to blood stains and tear-stained, torn up clothing._

“So,” the journalist veers off, and there’s something shifting, as though he were a hawk who had just zoomed in on a completely unsuspecting prey.“What’s it like being in a relationship with Olivia Pope? Is it—hard on you?”

Jake’s voice drops as though he had just thrown wood into a fire and lit it all up. “If you are asking,” he begins, the lines of his mouth already pulled back and tight, the angle of his jaw looking sharper as though it mirrored his mood (which, to her eyes at least, is probably true). “Whether or not the fact that Olivia Pope is Olivia Pope—which, since you seem to have problem articulating the concept, simply means that Liv is who she is; fierce and strong and capable with or without me deeming her so—and shines in her job bothers me, here’s the short version; no, it absolutely does not bother me in the least.”

“Because,” he adds after a minute, eyes glinting. “Spoiler alert about the longer version incoming, _I love her like this._ No, scratch that— _I love her, I’m in love with Olivia Pope;_ also known as, she doesn’t frighten or belittle or piss me off for being herself. She makes me so immensely proud, bumps in the road, screaming matches, hard truths and all that comes with us being us.”

“See? He’s like a word wizard; the minute he decides to say something, he goes all out, whether he’s saying, _I’m out of fruit and I need to buy some ASAP_ or stuff like what he’s just said—at the drop of a hat.” She leans forward a little, her hand playfully cupping in front of her mouth; her eyes shining as though she were on the brink of sharing a secret. “And frankly, it’s kind of annoying,” she admits.

It’s a little weird to be this open about her and Jake; it’s another thing she admits to herself as she watches the journalist in front of her frown while her lips curve up at the same time as Jake’s gaze lingers on her face for a few seconds before one of his brows arches up. She never thought this day would happen—for a ton of reasons—and now that it is actually here, it feels like letting a knot fall loose. The only problem is this: she’s always liked the fact that there was a tight, intricate knot; rain or shine, storms or still waters, the knot has stood its ground, and she will be damned if it comes undone now that it can simply be without hesitating and tiptoeing and steps that aren’t really steps. So; she’s treading unfamiliar waters, true that, but the sun is out—really out—and she’s feeling it on her skin. Not chasing or longing or boxing it away, no; she’s basking in it.

“Is it,” he contends. There’s a lightness to his voice, the kind that has been something so uniquely theirs lately, and if she weren’t in public right now, she would burst out laughing just because of that subtle edge—pure, unadulterated joy would bubble out of her. “Because last time I checked, you liked it, Ms Pope; you liked it a lot.”

“Before Sean here asks, that’s another thing I like,” she adds. “The fact that he doesn’t even have to try and he just... makes me laugh.”

“After such an honest statement, it would mean I’m terrible at my job if I didn’t ask; Jake—is there something that you particularly like about Olivia?”

He scratches at his cheek, bowing his head a little; it’s heart-warming to see, in a way. He’s always been the one—between the two of them—speaking his emotions into rock solid truths. “How much time do we have?” he’s being charming again; there’s so much he could say, so much that, even in private, he has only hinted at. Some things are obviously off the table—things that they have brought up without actually giving them a name, things they have seen in each other’s eyes; felt through each other’s hands—nevertheless her heart is going up and up and up into her throat, as though this were the first time he said something (solicited or otherwise) of the sort; her smile appears, stubborn little thing that it is, without her actually realising it has—it’s becoming incredibly natural, almost like flipping a switch just by feeling for it in the dark. 

He clears his throat before answering, the echoes of his laugh—because, yes; he’s played off his charm with a kind of hushed laugh, musical and husky and vibrant in its low tones—still somehow lurking in his expression. 

Having absolutely no idea what he’s about to pull out of his sleeve is something she should have gotten used to by now; however there’s always that one beat that spikes out the rhythm, wild and high and traitorous in its crescendo of anticipation that seems to be echoing through her whole body, as though it were nothing but a jumble of streets and an orchestra were marching along each of them, spilling onto every available inch as they play; faster and faster, on and on it goes, every single time. Until he speaks, that is.At that point it all just solidifies inside of her, usually; the feeling turns to marble, slamming into her in all its uncommonly warm and fuzzy glory.

“There isn’t just _one_ thing,” he sighs. “She’s just—she’s Liv,” he ends up saying; the words shaky and fast, slipping out woven together as though they represented one single thread tangled into one huge ball of yarn. _Damn, he’s really good at roping people in, it’s riveting to watch._ “Although, I guess that if I really had to pick something, the choice would most definitely fall onto something she isn’t even consciously aware of—whenever she does it,” he’s smiling; there’s no need for her to look at him to be sure of it; his voice has gotten throatier, softer—that bit of dreams pressed and crystallised on the inside of murmur that, up until a while ago, she used to try and turn a deaf ear to, whenever his voice dipped into it, as easily as though it were cool water against warm skin in the ferocious summer heat that turns everything into weights. It’s that smile that he has always thrown her way using his entire face, even when the words were supposed to be a lie.

“Whether I like it or not, there is a part of me that usually scares people. And I can’t just—switch it off; nor can they lock it away like a monster in a fairytale.” 

The ache—that familiar, poisonous, heavy ache—is throbbing beneath his words, supposedly unheard; but he knows she’s catching and reliving and loathing every drop of it all over again; for a hazy second, she wishes her father were here and she wishes she could get up and dump every ounce of it plus her fury on him until he begged and invoked mercy with every fiber of his being.

“But Liv doesn’t try to chase the dark out as though it was contagious—she understands that there have been some experiences that have left a mark and that it may pop back up at times; she doesn’t pressure me into fitting into a mold, doesn’t demand that the _“Navy Gentleman”_ persona be constantly on.” His voice falters slightly; his eyes slip down just a fraction.

This isn’t an answer she expected. This isn’t even an answer he threw out to look good and sway the press—no; this answer is one-hundred percent Jake, a glimmer of truth that has finally found its form in words.It’s always been there, somehow simmering beneath the actual words; echoing in every touch. Hearing it, though, is like some sort of hidden image finally clicking into place.

It isn’t much—and by much, her brain grumbles, she means she would gladly do more—but she scoots as closer as she can, wraps her arms around his shoulder. Her voice seems to echo when she mumbles, “I don’t expect you to fit a model because that’s not how it works; if that were the case, it would mean I’m a hypocrite, because you don’t demand that of me, either.” The words hang in the silence, almost as though they had somehow been frozen solid once she said them; the rest of what she wants to say—even if she’d rather do this somewhere else, where she could scream and rage and cry and hold him and let herself be held, if need be; even if it’s a more or less trimmed version because there are details that they can’t voice here—coming after what feels like an eternity and a second all twisted together and wrapped in a flashy package and a ribbon. “What I do need to tell you, even if that’s usually your strong suit, is this: you are not just the bad things that have happened to you—they had an impact, that’s undeniable; but you are a whole person that goes beyond that mark. You are the person that wakes me up with coffee in the morning—extra coffee, if work gets particularly tough. You’re the person that drags out of my office whenever I need a break, however stubbornly I might deny it.You’re the person that holds me when I need to be held and screams at me when I need to hear things I’m dead set on ignoring; you’re the person that knows every thought of mine before I even say a word about any of them,” her voice kind of flickers, the words blurring into one another as emotion roars in her veins; a never-ending chant that has nearly swept her off her feet, even though the words sound foreign—but they call to her. _Come home, come home; we’ve missed you,_ they sing. “You are the person who’s seen every side of me that there is to see—the vulnerable, the angry, the downright broken, and the scary; you’ve seen them all and you’ve loved them all, no limits and no questions asked, none; you love me because I’m me, so how could I not do the same? I need you to know that even if I don’t say it much, even if there have been years in which the only words you heard from me were only almost after almost, I love you. And this time—this time, I’ll be damned if I ever think of running away from it again.”

**_ II _ **

**_ Jake _ **

The interview had been a smart move; almost consequential, even. Divorcing Vanessa had been a relief. Serving that plus the fact—yeah, yeah; newspapers would opt for the term reveal, but as Mellie put it, everyone has known for a while, even before Liv went and dropped an angry _I love you_ on him; so fact it is, and to him, it’s been like this for a long time, anyway—that he’s in love with and committed to Olivia Pope of all people to the press?Not exactly a light entrée, is it?

“I meant what I said, you know,” she’s spent. He’s used to hearing angry Liv, loud Liv, snappy Liv; her soft voice isn’t quite as popular. There have been moments, sure, but they usually happened when there was no one else in the room except him, Huck, Quinn—or all three of them. Whenever her voice dips, his first instinct is to reach for her and just—hold on. It’s become so natural over the years that they don’t even have to ask anymore; they just move closer without even having to look at their surroundings, their arms reaching out until they touch and the space between them ends, shutting out whatever it is that haunts either of them at the moment.

It’s the kind of moment they’ve been longing for—at least, he knows he has; it feels fragile in its stillness.

It’s like the barrier has been permanently disbanded, its pieces still lying around; their emotions roaming free across their faces for the first time in forever.

If he closed his eyes, it would be easy—to fall back into that mattress, her weight so familiar and warm against him, even above the duvet.

The smile that appears on his face is wider than any other he remembers—yes, even if compared to the ones designed to impress so thoroughly.

Around them, the street is quiet right now; the worn traces of a newly ended day standing out in the calm that has enveloped it.

“I know,” he whispers. “So did I. Every bit of it was true; even the ones I never mentioned to you, but it wasn’t just about looking good on camera, Liv.” 

The pause that follows wasn’t mean to last as long as it does, but at the end of it, she steals the words away as though she had just snapped her fingers. Which isn’t a first, but it’s still new enough that he finds himself a bit thrown off. “I had gathered as much. You think you’re the only one doing any kind of watching whenever the other isn’t aware of it; newsflash—you are not.” She had sounded feeble a moment ago, and now her voice is rising. However, she’s not itching for a fight; there is a certain kind of ferocity to her words, sure, but it’s like they’re being torn away from her lips. “I was looking at you as you spoke, Jake. Not seeing or glancing or blinking; I was looking _at you_ , as I have looked at you for years, and I felt every single word, because I knew what you meant, syllable by syllable. I remember every gruesome detail you glossed over; hell, I remember how every detail made me feel like it just happened—right there on that hideous couch,” she’s on a roll, her eyebrows sharply arching as though they could actually cut whatever they may touch.

His heart is a furious creature practising its acrobatics in his chest over and over and over; his body just stands still in the cool night air that seems to be able to do nothing against the scorching rush this entails, a drum capturing this symphony minute by minute, tap by tap.

“So, yeah; I know what you mean when you say this wasn’t a PR stunt,” there it is again; fatigue creeping around the words. “I also know that talking about this again is making me feel murderous—as in, _literally murderous_ ; and you know how well that worked out for the last person who tried to hurt you. Or, well,” her nose scrunches, annoyance seeping out. “Almost worked out—lucky bastard, Russell was. I had a ton of worry-stemmed rage I needed to work through that day.”

He chuckles; that deep, relaxed sound that has become so frequent between them—whenever they’re not in work mode—almost booming in the silence. 

“To be fair, I’m kind of glad you didn’t,” he says as his voice dwells in that breezy tone he’s still convinced will come crashing down at some point. “Because,” he goes on after a bit, anticipating the icy glare she’s sprung on so many people and closed so many conversations with without even showing signs of faltering; his voice lowers, softening as though this were a caress meant for her ears and skin alone. Which—it’s true, in a way; he knows she won’t be frightened or put off or creeped out. “That would’ve meant I be granted some alone time with the one and only Andrew Nichols back in the day, which, as you will swiftly recall, didn’t happen.”

Liv’s brow arches, curiosity gleaming in her gaze. _Do tell, Admiral_ , she seems to be murmuring. _Do tell._

His finger reaches out towards her face. “But,” his feet move at the same time, his words almost vibrating in the sole of his shoes; when his skin finally meets hers, it’s like touching a wire—it buzzes. His voice lowers, as though it were husky out of disuse. “I can’t deny I have everything I could ask for,” he leans in, following the trail his fingers marks by moving ever so slowly across her cheek; emotions and hunger mingling in her gaze with each progress he makes. He doesn’t need a mirror to know his own face is returning the image: a dance of near touch nurturing ideas lurking all over it, the need to just hold and grab and grip and tease roaring mutely like a hurricane that wipes out everything standing in its path somewhere inside of them both. “Right here.”

She’s about to say something, her eyes twinkling as her lips part just slightly, words still unshaped behind them; floating like leaves in the wind.He can see them, going and going and going—on for so long, their meanings all scrambled together and somehow dripping into one weird mix. She tries, and what comes out is a sigh; a sigh that could mean any number of things. _You want me to try and best that,_ or perhaps, _you flatterer_ —she would also shove past him, her laugh hushed until they were distant; then spilling into the world like unshaped, limitless joy— _is that what they teach people in the Navy these days?_

He kisses her, then; it’s relatively quick—chaste, even, if compared to most times they’ve kissed. “C’mon,” is a hot murmur of sorts, sliding down her neck. “I wanna take my girlfriend out for a burger. After the day we’ve had, we deserve a break.” He’s almost smiling as he says it. There were days when even thinking of saying something simple like this felt like a delusion all by itself, and now—now, he tells himself, almost beaming, it’s a reality; shiny and familiar and theirs.

“A burger, huh,” she ventures coyly; her gaze deepening as it fixes on his face.

“Yup, “he pops the P, light and quick. Then, “I’m afraid that she’ll have to settle for beer, though,” and his voice dips into the somber tone of teasing.

Her nose wrinkles the minute the words leave his mouth. “Ah,” she sighs, staring ahead—at his eyes; warm green and certainly amused—as though she were daring him to rebut right now, off a simple noise. “The things I do for you,” but the sentence culminates in a face splitting grin that lights her up like New Year’s Eve would the midnight sky—he loves it.

**_ III _ **

**_ Quinn _ **

She has gotten married. They had talked about tying the knot on and off since she found out she was pregnant—and here they are, with rings on and everything.

“Looks like you owe me fifty bucks,” she says, her chin swinging towards Liv and Jake. The people in front of her blink, but Huck doesn’t miss a beat—he nods, not quite smiling. “And by you, I mean Abby, David and Marcus.”

At her side, Charlie throws her a look. “What?” She shrugs. “A bet’s a bet, Charlie. And they bet wrong. I mean, you know what I’m talking about, and even if you didn’t—just, take a look at them, will you?”

Liv and Jake, a.k.a _Mom and Dad_ —if they ever found out, they all would be wishing they worked as accountants or something, but she’s gonna go live on the edge and call things like she’s seeing them; as she has been doing for... a while—are in public. And they are moving—because there is no way that movement can somehow be defined as dancing, anywhere. But her former bosses are smiling and they look like they are in a cozy little bubble, away from the relative chaos of a room with other people in it.

She smiles. It’s been a long time coming, but she can’t say she’s ready to think of two other people who deserve it more.

“They can’t dance for shit,” Charlie offers, dryly. “Is that what you want me to look at?”

“True,” she mutters fondly; nonetheless, she makes sure to dig her elbow into his arm. “Way off base, though.I meant to say that I have watched them since they met—kind of; and they are finally done being stubborn about it. I don’t even know what it is that they thought they could hide from us.”

There have been so many moments unfolding before her very eyes, even though neither of them seemed to keep track of that; the way they were after the island, the way they tiptoed around each other even before those two months that seem to have left a mark only the two of them can spot. The way Jake had paced—so unwillingly reminding of Liv—when she had been kidnapped, trying to wrack his brain for a way out; and later, they way he’d softened around her withoutfalling into the mistake of deeming her completely broken or completely unscathed. The way Liv hadn’t budged one inch when his life had hung on the line—any of those times, she’d held on; as though she had claws sunken deep into the desperation, the sheer stubbornness of not wanting to lose him—even when it had nearly broken her.

That time she remembers as vividly as the heat a punch usually leaves behind. She had leapt up, her tongue almost burning, words crawling across it. “Why aren’t you saving him,” it had been incomprehensible; this wasn’t some nameless guy, caught in the crossfire—this was Jake. “Why?”

Liv had crumpled, then; her voice barely a whisper, lost among the tears she had tried to reign in. But Quinn had heard it. Had heard the sorrow lingering in those words, the toll it had taken from her to say such a thing.

There are a lot more moments that have perhaps blended into past work days, now escaping her grasp; as foggy as they might be, her point stands perfectly. “I was here with you guys, you know.I have seen them in as many circumstances as I’ve seen all of you; which is why the fact that you managed to place the wrong bet after years is a little off putting, is all.”

“You bet on us?” Olivia asks. She can’t tell whether the words are veiled in accusation or disbelief, and she just—freezes. _Caught red-handed, she was, indeed._

When she turns—and it feels like one of those slow motion scenes in a movie that make you sick because they’re played over and over—she finds them standing close, as though there were some kind of route they can’t help but follow in tandem. “I bet that you two would come together, today.” She corrects; the unspoken duh somewhat hidden in her clipped tone. “And, if you ask me—that’s the definition of an obvious bet.”

Jake’s almost smiling when he says, “you know, Perkins, the last time someone,” and the hand he has around Liv’s shoulder sort of tightens, his eyes alight with mirth, “made a point of knowing, and I quote, _what I was up to_ ,we ended up having quite the thrilling experience in a hallway and on a door and in a bath—”

Olivia moves as if to hit him. If she manages to do so, Quinn doesn’t see him react—no wincing or frowning. “Actually,” she says, instead; mischief thick in such a cheery rebuttal. “Unless my memory fails me, I remember leaving that bathroom, with you still,” she pauses, as if to find the right words. Her lips are already curling at the mere idea of saying something, amusement shining like it would on a mirror.She settles on one word, small enough to drive the point across and yet echo for a while. “Busy.” 

The flirty edge in her voice is thunderous; in fact the only thing that surpasses it is probably David’s sputtered, high-pitched, “T.M.I, you guys. That’s just—ew, I _did not need to know that_ , seriously.”

“To be fair,” Jake murmurs, his words somehow landing against Liv’s neck as though they were a blanket. Quinn smirks; as stealthy as she might appear to other people, Liv’s shadow of a tense spine—probably also crawling with shivers, judging by what her neck looks like; a maze of curving, tightly-gripped lines, as though it were taking a massive effort to stay still—hasn’t escaped her eye. “I did say it was a work call, when I excused myself.” He grins before lowering his voice further; quick, bright—wolfish, even. _Just another day around Mom and Dad, when they think we’re just walking around the office. With—less work involved._ “And I take my work very, very seriously.”

Someone—probably Abby—gapes. “Did he just...” her eyes widen uncharacteristically quick as her hand snaps up, widely spread. “You know what, I don’t want—or need—to know, actually.”

_ Welcome to my typical work day. _ “At least,” she finds herself saying along a relieved sigh, “you got to skip denial, Whelan. That was,” her nose wrinkles just by thinking about it— _pointless_. Utterly useless and just poorly acted. Because anyone with a set of working eyes would’ve realised that they were knee-deep in denying; failing to while they thought they hadn’t has a better ring to it, let’s be real. “Terrible.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jake waves a hand, his voice almost singing. “We put you through hell, Perkins; _roger that_ ,” there is something hanging there, unsaid and pressing, somehow slipping past the intended sass; he looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t yet. No, he just shuts up and opts for smiling at her, instead.

In his arms, Liv twists to look at him. That’s another thing that hasn’t changed, over the years; the volumes their eyes speak to one another, even when they think it doesn’t—before, she muses, it may have been unintentional for a minute or so; but now, oh, now, they are very aware of what they’re doing: her head is somewhat tilted back, eyes gleaming, as though she were trying to convince him; he is arching his eyebrows, as if to say, _oh, really. Try it, then._

It’s sort of mind-blowing to watch, even after all this time, how easy it is for them to have entire debates just through slight movements. 

When Liv turns back to her, she’s smiling. Another sight whose appearances she would have counted on one hand, if she had been asked just a couple of years ago. “What Mr Riddler is trying to get at here is that we have nearly driven ourselves insane to find you a wedding gift,” and she stops. _What is it with these two and suspence?_

“Until we remembered that you guys will most likely have to postpone your honeymoon and that you haven’t chosen a place for it yet.”

The question escapes her before the thought has fully sunk in. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“That depends,” Liv has moved to smirking. “If you think I’m saying that you’ll have a trip to an island as soon as your baby is old enough to spend some quality time with her god mother, then yes; you’re on the right track.”

“Wait, wait— _an island_?” Marcus is squeaking, obviously disbelieving. “As in, the Maldives?”

Quinn laughs. “Nope; think more Bermuda Triangle level of secrecy with less death and conspiracy involved.”

“Also known as,” Abby chimes in, “the place these two once ran off to.” 

They both smile in response. “We figured, what better reason to finally see it than your honeymoon?”

**_ IV Olivia _ **

**__ **

Six months later, the bed is still lukewarm when she comes to. “Mmm,” she mumbles, eyes still stubbornly shut. He’s in the room—don’t ask her how she knows; she just does. It’s something that comes easily, after so much time. She could’ve tried and quantified it—she used to do it, before—but it has no relevance now. “’s she up already?” her voice is still heavy with sleep. _Babies have a very weird relationship with sleep_ , and that’s saying something if it comes from her.

“Oh, she was,” he says from somewhere near. “As a matter of fact, she even helped me with breakfast. She said, _Uncle Jake let me get pancake all over your shirt; it looks funny._ ”

She cracks one eye open and sort of sits up. “There’s pancakes?” she asks, faux-outraged. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“Because I would very much like you to be fully awake, first,” he deadpans. “To avoid my hard work be thrown to the floor—again.”

“Are you saying I’m clumsy, Admiral Ballard?” she may have been sleepy mere minutes ago, but now? Oh, now; it’s show time.

He grins, soft and tender as well as wicked; it’s a shade she’s caught so many times she almost instinctually grins right back, but, “nope,” he mutters; moves closer until he’s also half sitting on the bed—eyes thundering. _He’s got ideas, huh?_ “I’m just pointing out that you have a history of—well; being easily prone to excitement, shall we say?”

His head lowers closer; eyes zooming in on hers.

_ Ah-ha _ . Ignore the warmth spreading, Liv. Ignore. “So do you, if I recall,” she mutters, hell-bent on not conceding one inch—yet.

“You keeping score now?” he’s moving, arms reaching and fingers grazing—ever so slowly; _how does know every single way he has of potentially driving her insane_ ; this thought will stay a thought, she manages to impose herself—and running free across her skin.

“Maybe,” she chokes out. 

The word somehow acts as a clue and he drops lower and kisses her, nibbling softly at her lower lip. She kisses him back tentatively; it’s not the first time that it takes her a while to fully get on board with his idea, because there are moments where she still half expects this to slip away the minute she stops to blink.

“What about,” she pants, her breath hard and heavy; her voice hoarse. “Breakfast?”

“We have all morning,” the words are thin against her skin and they spread like the circles of a thrown stone in a lake—warm on her neck and honey-like at the same time. She almost wants to taste them herself and prove that theory. _Later, Olivia._ “We can delay it a bit, if you want,” and he grins again, more subtle this time, his eyebrow slightly curving upward. _Choice’s yours_ , he seems to be saying—low and smooth; the sheer prospect, as simple as it might turn out to be, nothing short of thrilling. _Just take it and I’ll gladly be on board._

There it is again—as there has always been; she barely feels herself move away enough to soak up the thought and grin at his cheek as she thinks it, stubble and all; that steadiness. _Is that what you want? Just say the word and I’m on my way_ are just a couple of instances that ring in her ears whenever she starts thinking hard about it. It’s a fact, by now; one that still catches her by surprise at times, after all this years: this is not something she’s merely on the inside of, adapting to fit someone else’s input. No—and she knows he would openly scoff at the mere mention of anything discordant on this (he already has, before. Lightly, in a sort of low-key way; but firmly)—they’re in this together. Partners; on equal footing through whatever they may decide to delve into.

Needless to say, breakfast falls pretty rapidly on the bottom of her priority scale—or, to be accurate: it tumbles down so fast she almost doubts it ever was on there. Until, of course, baby Robin starts wailing—and she somehow finds herself thinking, _woah._ The doctors hadn’t been kidding when they told Quinn and Charlie about the strong lungs.

Jake laughs warmly. “I think we’ll have to postpone,” he says as they scramble off the bed, throwing whichever articles of clothing they can reach on. Somewhere in there, lurking, lays a promise; be it now or later, they are taking some one-on-one time. 

She does her damned best not to think about the look he throws her way when his torso is half skin, half fabric, later. There was—something. Defining it seems a bit complicated at the moment, but she caught a flicker, which—knowing Jake Ballard like she does will lead to something, eventually. What exactly, she can’t say yet.

And as strange as that is, there is no part of her that dreads it. At least, not like she used to dread curveballs; because she is positive that this time (and most times after this), it won’t be a matter of life or death; or worse yet, of such complete upheaval that might burn her word down to thick, grey ashes.

**_ V  _ **

**_ Mellie _ **

She has been sitting alone among deep thoughts when she hears it—a knock, rapping three times on the door. Which is quite unusual, these days; as protocol would have it, she should be notified before people even caught a glimpse of the door.

“Ma’am,” a voice says somewhere above her head. “Sorry to disturb you, but I need your input on something.”

The standard, tense “What is it?” is almost stiffly out of her lips, the break in her reverie most definitely welcome—doubts and hypothesis in the wake of a chance that has, sadly, long since bitten copious heaps of dust—until she realises it’s Jake who has spoken. “Ma’am?” her hand flicks swiftly in front of her face; annoyance ringing out as though it were the beat of a drum.“How many times do I need to remind you that me matchmaking for you puts you out of the employee list and into the close friends one?”

He shoots her a lopsided grin. “Technically,” he points out, “you matchmade for Liv; I was the unsuspecting other half.”

“ _Unsuspecting_ ,” she echoes. _These two will drive me to an early grave, I can feel it._ “Please,” she scoffs. “You two were the human equivalent of _Simba_ and _Nala_ from the _Lion King_ from day one. Only, you version of _Can You Feel The Love Tonight_ lasted days, weeks; months even. I had to do something, since you two were hell-bent on driving me crazy.”

His hand snaps up, wide in surrender. “I apologise for us both then,” he says lightly; almost laughing. 

It occurs to her that it’s nearly the first time that’s happened in front of her. Sure; she has some vague slither of memory from the campaign trail—of hushed laughs and knowing looks and soft, vanishing, lighting-quick smiles that she had sometimes thought to be tricked into seeing; _it’s habit, by now. Quit it_ , she’d scowl at herself—but even then those were simple glimpses, the truth firmly held still by circumstances she had no clue about yet while her focus was completely devoted to reaching the top of the mountain of American politics—and thus of the world

Mellie sobers at that, as if suddenly remembering that they aren’t on a couch nursing drinks. “You said you needed my help with something?”

It’s Jake’s turn to wave a hand. “It’s nothing major,” he assures, but there’s something marring this image of supposed calm: he’s a naval Admiral and he isn’t standing ramrod-straight—which he’s usually perfectly capable of doing; she’s seen him doing itin more adverse conditions than this room. But no; he’s currently fidgeting.

Her eyes narrow. If he’s just trying to keep her calm and there’s a bombshell coming, he’ll come out of the Oval battered; lightly battered and not too heavily bruised, but still.

“It’s nothing major,” he says again, slower, as though he had heard her intentions, “but it _is_ personal. And I really had no idea who to ask. And I need help because _somebody_ could give Sherlock Holmes a run for his money without even actually trying.”

“Alright, _Mr Darcy_ ,” she concedes.“What are you planning?”

“Well,” he starts—and it just—it clicks; when her eyes stop to stare into his: deep, bright pools of green that can’t seem to help but whisper things and flash them around at the same time.

“Nothing major,” she squeaks, getting up. She is standing in front of him—he’s sputtering something that her brain can’t seem to be bothered to decipher, because, _nothing major_? Did he just—seriously go there? She gets not wanting to be a snob, but that right there was some poor wording for the history books; no: it is the textbook parent of all possible examples of poor wording. “You come to me asking for help because you want to marry Olivia Pope and all you can say not to give it away is _nothing major_ ,” her arms cross over her chest as she glares at him. “Are you kidding me? God, you two are unbelievable. Made for each other even in that regard, but still unbelievable,” she huffs.

He almost grins at her again; this time impish and shy somehow all rolled into one. “What I was aiming at is actually keeping her busy before I actually ask her, but yeah; that’s the gist of it, Mellie.”

“You’re lucky I like you, Ballard—very lucky.”

“That I am,” he says—actually chuckling this time. He’s not flustered, exactly—there’s no one surer of what they feel than these two, as difficult as showing it might prove to be for them—but something has begun changing in his expression: there’s an enthusiasm sort of peeking out, opening what usually seems to locked into place, a brightness he has never shown before; it’s involuntary of course, but it makes her ache. Ache for something that always finds a way to escape her just after being barely reached. “Thank you,” he tells her, after pressing a kiss to her cheek; soft and warm.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says, and smiles. “You’re very welcome, Jake. Now, shoo; I have distractions to plan—and it’ll take me a while, because I’ll have to out-Pope your lovely girlfriend.”

“Good luck,” he murmurs, almost laughing as he makes his way out; the spring in his step somewhat checked. “You’ll need it.”

“Right back at you,” she chirps, smiling even when the door has been closed and she’s alone again; her thoughts somehow duller and more distant. 

She better get to work. _After all,_ she muses. _Weddings are a great for the morale; and hers definitely needs a raise_ , pronto.

**_ VI  _ **

**_ Jake _ **

“It wasn’t a date,” Liv’s saying. They are walking towards the Lincoln Memorial, but her mind has gone years back, sprinting along memory lane. “You basically ambushed me with wine and a cheeseburger and pasted a date label on it.”

“You flirted, I flirted; we had dinner,” he smirks. “Sounds like a date to me.”

“I did not flirt with you,” she insists, tilting her head to the side. 

“Oh, yeah?” he mutters. “Did I imagine you agreeing on liking challenges, then?” he’s teasing her, of course. If there’s something he particularly loves doing—minds away from the gutter, please; and besides, they’re both open about that, when asked—is banter: it flows, undeterred, and it’s fun to look at her as she refuses to let him gain one inch and then smiles. She’s beautiful whenever—determined, angry, in control, satisfied; even sad—but there is something about his girlfriend simply smiling that takes his breath away; something in his chest tightens and tugs at the idea.

_ Damn, he’s really that smitten. Consider the back of his head scratched sheepishly. _

“Damn it,” she mumbles under her breath. “You and your freakish photographic memory are no fun,” she pouts.

“We are plenty of fun,” he rebuts, flashing her a smile that says, _you agree most days—and you know it._ Instead, he says, “you just have a tough time at saying so, Miss Pope.”

Liv doesn’t add anything; she just stops walking and turns to face him—he’s half prepared to have his ears ringing for a while, because that’s (one of many) the thing about Olivia Pope: she’s scary with words, but her silences are scarier, because they’re not an absence of reaction; they’re the sharpening process of that reaction so that it cuts as deep as it can. Especially if you can read the signs and know that they’re just a pointed, thinned alert for what’s to come. So, he waits for the metaphorical kaboom, eyes fixed on her chin; which is—a weird place, he’s aware of that, but there is a certain energy to watching her when she gets into a topic she cares about. It used to be tinted in anger; there were times when all he had wanted was to set her off so the he could just—fire back, and point, _that, right there, is a flaw, Olivia; you have them, too—and yes; they will make you trip at some point._

It used to end in angry sex—he’s talking, _angry, fast and calculated_ ; and believe it or not, there is a difference. Now, though; now it’s about being fully along for the ride (pun sometimes intended to this day, he smirks to himself) and taking every twist in as it happens; it’s about watching—and letting her know that he’s doing so, ready for whatever she might need afterwards, be it a hug, a nod or just him; there, plain and simple—and thinking, _this is it. She is fantastic and I’m not gonna miss one second of this ever again._

But Olivia shakes him out of his head by keeping silent, eyes trained on him, head almost tilted to the side. And then—then, she sticks her tongue out at him.

_ What a dork _ . Smiling back is easy; so much so that he barely notices doing it.

The moment they’re having seems to have frozen—crystallised, even—until her gaze lowers a little, before shooting back up, straight to his eyes as she takes a deep breath. 

“Marry me,” she says evenly. It’s not a question; just—two words along an exhale.

There might be a part of him that wonders— _did she just say that?_ —blinking and sputtering and frowning and everything; at the same time, used as he is to her and her subtle shifts—in mood and movement; in decisions and revelations—he can’t help but go back to how she said it. A soft, steady murmur flowing out of her without interruptions or pauses; without doubt—a smile, small but bright, following like the frame of dawn after the quiet of the night.

He doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he stares; as if the staring alone could help him carry this memory with him—which he has been able to do, before. Something tells him, though, that this particular moment will echo more than be carried.

_ Sap, _ he tells himself— _I’m a sap._

The fact that he wants to laugh at that must be showing, because Liv raises an eyebrow. “Cat tell you a joke before stealing your tongue or someth—”

That’s the moment he chooses; to walk the steps, bend down, arms closing around back and fingers pressing against her shirt just as his nose slides against hers, and kiss her. He’s kissed her quickly, quietly, suddenly; he’s kissed her with so many emotions running through them both—anger, weariness, relief, to name a few; and now, he’s kissing her yet again: slowly, carefully, tenderly.

He feels her smile against the corner of his mouth. “Is that a yes, Admiral Ballard?”

Her words run along his skin, goosebumps thick in their wake; his stomach tightens in response, anticipation engulfing him like a flame.

“As much as it kills me to be the one to say it,” he says, feather-like, emotion-soaked, “it is, yes.”

She pulls back, head tilted. “Wait— _be the one to say it_? You wanted to—ask me?”

_ You don’t say, Liv.  _

“Aw, you’re adorable when you stutter and play confused.”

She shakes her head. “No playing involved; this is me—wearing my confused face,” she mutters. Then, louder, she adds, “and I _do not_ stutter,”

“Roger that,” he mumbles. “No stuttering. Well, Miss Not-From-Hollywood, you beat me to the punch on proposing before we reached Lincoln Memorial, _but_ ,” he smiles. “I still have a surprise for you there.”

Her eyes widen. “A surprise,” she mutters; the word thoughtful in its neutrality. A step ahead if compared to wariness, because Olivia Pope doesn’t typically like surprises of any kind. “Consider me intrigued, Admiral.”

_ I can definitely work with intrigued. _

**_ VII _ **

**_ Olivia _ **

“I can’t believe you went to Mellie for this,” she says as she sinks—and leans back—into the couch.

“You might have said that, already,” he sighs back. “Three times. Or maybe four; I’m starting to think I’ve lost count.”

_ A real comedian, I’ve got to hand it to you.  _ “Of all the people we know, I must admit I thought you were gonna go to Quinn or Huck or both.”

His hand stops—hovering just above the tip of her shoulder; the pattern it had previously been busy tracing vanishes, just like sand after waves reach the beach. “Yeah,” he concedes. “If I wanted you to figure it out in half a second, I would have.”

_ Touché. _

“Well, curveball of my own making non-withstanding,” a.k.a, _proposing out of the blue,_ “you did manage to hit a significant spot as far as my romantic history—and Mellie’s reluctant involvement in it—is concerned,” she admits.

“Sounds like there’s a story hidden in that statement,” he muses. “Should I get comfortable?”

An eye-roll escapes her, but she nods. She has avoided—or rather, covered everything up so thoroughly—for such a long while, without even fully noticing how intently she’d put her mind to it; though now, she has reached the end of that road.

_ Time to breathe in, face it all and thus let everything out in the open. _

“When the campaign had just wrapped up—I don’t even know if that is the right word; but still—Mellie and I, we were,” her hand has begun tapping away at a foreign rhythm between her leg and his, on that small patch of couch that has been left uncovered. What she’s about to say (even and perhaps most of all to herself, finally); what she’s on the verge of locking into existence—it’s big. Knots have fastened themselves on the inside of her stomach, firm and tight.

“Bummed,” he supplies. It’s an understatement—they both know it.

“So we got drunk and commiserated over the idea of,” her nose wrinkles, both at the memory itself and at the thought of such thing ever settling into reality, “Cyrus in the Oval. Which led to the time and energy we’d put into the job, and then, given how much wine we’d chugged down, Mellie moved to the next topic she would’ve never even tried to poke, had she been sober: sex. And— _feelings_.” The word comes out choked and thin. “For Marcus. Which were sort of new to her, I guess.”

She remembers how unusual it had felt; to be discussing something so personal with Mellie of all people. Because if there ever had been something that had stayed buried so deep that even the very earth they had stood on would have forgotten about, feeling were it.

“And I did two things,” her voice has thinned, her stomach churning and clamping on its way to closure; acid has risen. She remembers, and if she dared squeeze her eyes for even just a second, she is sure she would see it all wither all over again. “I lied to her, because she asked whether what I had heard reminded me of—Fitz and me; and I told her that it did, when in reality all that tale brought up was,” her voice catches, as though she were living this right now; except this time, she doesn’t hold back and chase this feeling out. For a moment, she lets herself wallow in it: still and breathless and furious and about to crack open in a thousand bleeding pieces as it all makes her. 

He doesn’t prod her forward. Doesn’t even reach out—yet. He just listens to her fast breaths, without once averting his gaze from her face.

Her heart clenches at the sight, her throat burning with the weight of lost time she’d give anything to get back.

“All that brought flooding back was you—us. And I lied, because putting it that way, even to just myself, even considering that I might not remember voicing it and that Mellie might not remember hearing it, it hurt. It felt like a part of me had been ripped off and what was left just—ached for something that, as I felt back then, would not be returned.”

“And then,” she says, back to a thin voice echoing with unshed tears, “I took everything Mellie said she’d felt and twisted and manoeuvred so that it broke and Marcus left, while what I wanted stood in reach, closer and closer until I grasped it.”

She doesn’t end up crying. She has cried enough that one time—the details of which, far away as they might currently be, still haunt her, sometimes; like the feeling of her breath pooling and crushing her chest; like her clothes encaging her, anchoring her to her own personal version of hell on earth when all she would have like to do was run as though deadly fire were spreading by a spark, vicious and poisonous at her heels.

“Alright,” he says softly, his hand brushing on hers—which has stopped tapping, by now—and gets up.

When he gets back, he’s silently carrying what looks like wine; he hands it to her and says, “Drink up; you look like you need some.”

And she does—gulps most of it down in two sips, in fact.

“Good. Now, please, listen to me: you are you; you see what you have to do to get from point A to point B and you do it. You have always done it. And even if we hadn’t been,” it takes him a minute to settle on a word. _Torn apart? Driven away? Threatened into division?_ “Estranged,” is a calm way of putting it; far too calm, if she’s honest. “You would have done it—and I would’ve backed you.”

“If we had been working together,” and she doesn’t say, _like we should have been_ ; he hears it anyway, she is sure. “I would’ve put my sweat and blood and sleep into figuring out an alternative, but I didn’t; I let it happen, and now you’ve asked her to help because you wanted to ask me to marry you and—by asking you first, I managed to mess this up, too.”

“Hey,” he pipes up, stern; his arm moves and her head finds itself leaning against his chest. His voice softens and starts echoing, his heartbeat drumming just above her right ear. “When I told her, she almost bit my head off because I tried to keep it low-profile. Trust me, when she finds out you beat me to it, she’ll be mad at someone in particular. Me.”

She laughs and the sound vibrates against his shirt. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

The kiss that lands on her forehead feels like the tickle of a feather. 

“We could avoid that—and payback her matchmaking,” he muses.

Olivia draws herself back, his arms still resting against her back. “Oooh,” she smiles, her eyes possibly glinting. “I like the way you think, Admiral. I really do.”

His only response is a wink. Once he’s gotten a glass and they have both drunk and toasted and clinked, back in business it is, in a way. 

**_ VIII _ **

**_ Jake _ **

Of all the talks that spurred out of being a happy(ily) engaged man, this is the one he would have rather avoided. And by that, he _does_ mean that being accidentally mauled by a shark would have been agreeable if compared to this.

“Am I to take this—development as serious, then? Or is it something that you two have concocted as a way of defying me?”

Beside him—on the left side of this table from a dinner in hell—he can feel Liv tense. If there had been a way out, she would’ve taken it, but, alas—cue theatrical sighs all around—Rowan is related to her and they’re both short on family members; so, as twisted as this may be, he’s chosen to swallow the pill.

A rebuttal is almost on the way out, because, _sorry to disappoint you, old man; if you wanted proof, you should’ve hung around your house longer, back when you know—you basically pimped me out to the deepest-pocketed bidder available._

Instead, he grips the table.

Liv stares ahead—straight at the host. “If we’re being literal, dad,” and her voice is so sweet on that last word that he has to wonder, is this what overdosing on sugar feels like? In case it is, his goddaughter is getting way less candy than planned from now on. “The word development ceased to apply,” she throws him a look. “When was the first you risked your life for me and I freaked out about it, Jake?”

He pretends to mull it over and then says, “Before Fitz’s last election run, I believe,” in that flat, detached tone that usually makes people freeze.

“And you _begged me_ ,” her father spits back. “As though you had nothing else once your play-toy was gone. The only step you missed was kneeling,” he scoffs.

Liv doesn’t even blink. “If you ask me, I’d say that was a negotiation. But that has nothing to do with why we’re today, does it?”

“Why are you here, then?”

“ _We_ are here because you’re my father and, as despicable as you can turn, you’re the one parent with self-control Fate has chosen to give me and this wedding is gonna be one-time thing. Having you there would be nice, is all.”

He’s about to say something. Any deities forbid he does not have the last word on something—ever.

Liv sharpens. He’s not close enough to feel it, but he notices. Rowan has barely any chance of speaking, before she interrupts; her sharpness of form migrates quietly into her words. “One last thing,” she says lightly, “you think of harming him or anyone else that will be attending to have some kind of leverage on me and I swear to every and any god that’s ever being worshipped on this planet, you’ll feel like you have acted as an innocent limping lamb would have, if compared to me.”

“Just so we’re crystal clear,” he adds, icily calm again, “if something were to happen by any wretched chance and Olivia were involved? Let’s just say all the civility you’ve experienced today would be set on fire. The only reason you’re sitting and breathing as of now is because you’re her father, but this is it.” He almost flashes back to another dinner. Almost hears his own hand slapping the knife into this same table—mere inches away from the real target. “No more free passes for you.”

A comment would be right on schedule, at this point in the script of Rowan versus anybody that might have dared displease him.

Cue the, “Olivia, this, this—isn’t what you’re meant to be doing. This act you’ve been putting on is beneath you. You are meant for something so much bigger than this—”

“I swear,” Liv hisses. Her glare cuts so deep he could have sworn he caught the entire room shrinking. Not the first time it happens—true. Also true: they’re not alone or close to a shooting range. Which leads to the following conclusion: Rowan had better stop that train of thought right now. 

“Mediocrity is really—”

“And there he goes,” Liv sighs, drumming her hand against the table. “Not up for discussion, Dad.”

Her hand snaps up, almost like a barrier. “This has nothing to do with accomplishments, which, just to be clear, happened because of me, not depending on whether I had someone to go home and talk to, but still; wanting to get married—to someone who, by the way, sees being who I am as anything _but_ mediocre, accomplishments in politics included and supported—does not mean I’ll wake up and be completely dumb the next morning. If you want to keep living by that association of ideas, fine; just—don’t expect me to fall in line anymore.”

Snide comments stop raining down on them and dinner morphs into something quiet, almost cordial, even.

This isn’t an ideal situation; he’s very much aware of how far it sits on the other end of the scale it actually sits, but they can handle it—they _will_ handle it. No running, no blaming, no exploding; just tight nerves and—stress coping in various forms.

**_ IX _ **

**_ Olivia _ **

“Many people think that the first thing I felt for you was physical attraction—and believe me, that happened; but in reality? My first feeling towards you was—gratitude. I was in a bad place when you bumped into me, and you dug in and dragged me out—even later, even after I’d snapped the door closed on you; so today, I’m standing here and telling you—in public. Thank you.”

It’s the first time she’s told him. He must’ve guessed years ago, but it’s the first time he has heard these specific words directly from her; and it shows—to her and maybe three other people in the room; and that half jump her stomach takes—is that how he feels whenever he drops a speech on her and she just, stands there and stares, forgetting how to blink and everything?

“Well,” has her mind started playing tricks on her or has his voice hitched just about now? He clears his throat quickly—and goes on; the shaky trace somehow faltering as its echo hides between words. “You’ve finally one-upped me at words, haven’t you? Today of all days—what’s there to add?” his cheek twitches just as his voice softens on that last question, small and big and flat and deep and thick and thin; allof it rolled into four words, alive and passed within one measly breath.

“The first time I saw you, what I felt was _not_ affection hitting me in the face; it was more as though understanding had slapped me into wakefulness. What—who—I was looking at was the side of myself I had tried to shut out for so long; and then, after speaking to you—that was it. There was no way in hell I would have turned back—there isn’t still. And I guess I have to return the favour, because, even though you slammed the door on me more than once—and I let you—you fought for me as I fought for you, so; thank you, Liv.”

She smiles a watery smile. If anyone ever asks in the future, though, the blame for any hint of wateriness whatsoever will rest solely upon the light; just like the weird, hot squeeze her stomach gives when he smiles back will fall into the pile of things the time of the day and her missed breakfast had a hand in causing.

-:-

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, and both Jake and Marcus spin towards her. “A little bird’s just whispered that a certain song’s bound to come on any minute now and I would just—feel terrible if you ended up staring at us as we butchered it, Marcus. Why don’t you go join Mellie over there? She looks like she could use the company; plus, sitting that song out would be,” her nose wrinkles as she ponders her words; her eyebrows settle into a frown. “Unfortunate.”

As the first few notes of _Sunny_ fill up the air and Jake’s hand finds that one spot on her waist, she allows herself to finally smile. The rhythm is soothing and inviting; the man opposite her feels as familiar as the music.

“You are not tipsy,” he notes.

If she smiles any wider, her face will shatter open. Blood is so not spilling—not today.

“Do I look like I care to you?”

“And—there you are; all in one perfectly bossy piece.” He tries to twirl her around. She hopes his feet won’t get smashed in the process. “Nice move, by the way. Marcus and Mellie are dancing—together. And they look like they actually know what they’re doing,” he draws her closer and gives a small cough as his voice lowers into a whisper, “unlike us.”

“Again, do I like I give any kind of damned, flying thing? Just— _shut up and dance, will you, Admiral Ballard?_ ”

“And don’t you dare _ma’am_ me,” she grumbles. “Not today, not ever.”

“Wasn’t going to,” he assures her as he twirls her again. “I learned my lesson on that; it’s just—”

“What?”

“ _Man, do I love you_ still cuts it better than any other thing I might try and say now.”

_ Dark days are gone; sun days are here, indeed. _

__


End file.
